


it's like Louis Vuitton baggage--you always want it

by ScarlettJuniper



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Daddy Issues, Gen, Patricide, don't get too excited, standard issue zoldyck issues, the hiso/illu is not the focus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22953088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettJuniper/pseuds/ScarlettJuniper
Summary: “Tell me,” he says, brushing a hand up your chest, “if you could kill anyone in the world, who would it be.”An heir claims his birthright.
Relationships: Hisoka/Illumi Zoldyck, Illumi Zoldyck & Silva Zoldyck
Comments: 5
Kudos: 170





	it's like Louis Vuitton baggage--you always want it

It is not an easy thing to be an eldest child—a parent’s expectation can be as heavy as iron. For a family whose name is synonymous with death, the weight is tenfold. Generations of bloody hand mark the signposts of your fate, pulling you down, down, down off your pedestal with every year that passes. 

But if expectations are heavy, the weight of inadequacy makes them seem like nothing. Inadequacy should be foreign to you—you are the oldest in a proud family, and you look to be the greatest of them. 

And yet some shadow haunts you, denying you your birthright. 

You heard your grandfather in close conference with your father about it once. 

_“That Meteor City blood was never fit to bear your heirs. You should never have married her.”_

_“I would not sire a bastard to sully the Zoldyck name.”_

_“Instead you’ve stained it forever.”_

There was no threat to your inheritance in those days. In those days you had a younger brother and no one else—a brother who even as young as two showed no signs of surpassing _you._ What stain could there be, as you built a pedestal for yourself, as you climbed a ladder of corpses? 

There was no stain.

You, with your clever hands and collection of pins, were well on your way to leaving the largest body count the Zoldyck family had ever claimed. No stain could mark the family name with you as its future, plucking victims from crowds like plump berries off of a springtime bush.

You had trained too hard-growing up in a house built on a foundation of survival. Of feeling the worst kinds of pain and surviving. Of immunity. Of moving so far past the breaking point that it could no longer exist. 

If there was such a stain, you would conceal it with blood.

You hoped that would be enough.

~~

There was no warning when Silva Zoldyck announced his heir. As Silva Zoldyck held up the white-haired youngest child and proclaimed him the next leader of the family, you felt something within you fall. Suddenly your place on your pedestal of bone was in danger. You could feel it rot and crumble, as much dust as the corpses it was built upon.

There was no explanation when you became a mere footnote. Only a threat in your grandfather’s flashing eyes as he glanced in your direction. You simply blinked back, impassive.

_That Meteor City Blood._

This would be a temporary proclamation. Younger siblings are not without their cost- but what did it matter who called themselves heir? This child could have nothing on you, with your speed and your body count. 

_You’ve stained it forever._

He is appointed with the kind of nursery befitting an heir. No—it is the room of a boy prince, waiting in the wings for a crown. 

Despite your confidence, the first wave of misgiving hits you. Looking down onto your younger brother’s sleeping face, you look for signs that he is unmarked in some obvious way that you are not. He has the faintest curl of white hair, as white as your fathers. As white as your grandfathers.

For the first time, you realize the weight of your grandfather’s judgment. He was wrong--the Zoldyck line will go unstained into future generations.

But you will have no part in it. 

In the coal dark hair of your mother, you bear the stain of disgrace. Slowly, as though you might scare him away, you reach a finger out and brush the forelock of silver hair on your brother’s head. 

It would take nothing to snap his neck- he would not even have time to cry. The static in your head will not stop, every moment of conditioning in your short life screaming at you to eliminate the threat.

_Wash away the stain, wash away the stain wash away the stain wash away the-_

“What are you doing?” Your father’s voice is cool as he puts a hand on your shoulder. For all the careful neutrality of his tone, you feel the force in his grip.

He does not trust you.

The mere sound of his voice summons the iron hot taste of blood.

He should not trust you.

“Welcoming the newest member of the family.” The words come out without stumbling; your training would allow for nothing less. But when Silva’s grip on your shoulder tightens, you know it’s not enough.

“He will someday lead this family,” he says. “It is your duty as a Zoldyck to ensure that he makes it that far.”

Your throat tightens against the expected words of assent, battling against some animal instinct insisting on obedience. Your words are useless in the face of such base instincts and so they do not come.

“You know what happens to those who can’t live up to the family name.”

You do.

You were fourteen, upstaged by an infant barely off your mother’s teat.

~~

There are only 10 bylaws dictating the conduct of professional Hunters. This is both more and less regulation than you have ever been subjected to. The majority are fairly straight forward things, mandates on paperwork and chain of command. The others you clear by a mile- especially the laughably low bar dictating the use of Nen. 

Only one of them bothers you—bearing the whiff of a yoke around your neck.

  1. Hunters must always be on the hunt for something.



You are an assassin- your family honor is staked on building up a portfolio of slaughter. But you get the sense that this is very different than the terms set before you. You have never hunted. It would be an insult to prey animals to call your victims such. 

Money also holds no sway. The Zoldyck family fortune is nearly as vast as their reputation—and much less of a priority. You only took the exam to track down your errant brother, but when the chairman hands you your license, the gravity impresses you all the same. 

You feel the faintest whiff of irritation as you consider the requirements before you. It has been years since something has been so troublesome as to evoke _emotion._ Perhaps it is your Zoldyck breeding at work, leaving you susceptible to tradition and ceremony. 

_Despite the stain._

You consider your brother’s silent form beside you. Perhaps it is Killua you hunt for, and that alone is sufficient. After all, it was for him that you underwent the trifles of standardized testing. 

In setting off for the License exam, spitting threats and rage, Killua risks doing worse than blemishing the family name—he risks destroying it.

And it is because of you, that for the first time, the golden heir of the Zoldyck Family, has failed. It is you who has come out on top.

But when you return home, your father has no words for you. The Hunter Association and the Zoldyck family are two sides of the same coin, operating outside the confines of international law to mete out justice to the highest bidder. Why should Silva Zoldyck feel anything that you have crossed one more extracurricular off your list?

Your father’s only concern is the return of his heir, who bears his silver hair and his blessing. Who wants nothing to do with the Zoldyck family legacy, the legacy that only he can carry on unblemished.

Even your mother has no welcome—these days it is clear she does not know where to place you. You are not a child to be smothered, so her motherly performance has ended. 

Instead, the cruel, distant streak that comes so naturally to her has come to replace the old warmth. It is the same streak the staff has accused you of inheriting. (They think they are clever, with their shifty gazes and whispers. The oldest of them, Tsubone, encourages them. They think you do not know. It pleases you to refuse the call of expectations).

It is Killua alone who has words for you, but these are foul and varnished with threats. He may renounce the family business but it is clear he is made for it. The things he threatens to do, all while bound in the Isolation Chamber, are vile. They would make your mother weep with pride to hear.

They do not please you. 

It is not the way of the assassin to charge headlong towards death—and if Killua were truly to fight you, it would mean his death. There is no match between you, for all that you bear some secret stain that he does not.

(You would not kill him)

But, as all children do, he eventually tires. His head nods to sleep, and it touches your heart (if that is even possible). Zoldyck children are taught from a young age not to rest unless they know they are truly safe. 

All hope is not lost, perhaps, if Killua trusts you enough to rest. It is possible you could lure him back into the fold, to reclaim his part of the family. But still, you are concerned by your reckless, _reckless_ brother. 

_this will not stand this will not stand this will not stand_

The pin slides neatly between his eyes. Small enough to leave no mark, but charged with enough nen to get the message across. Killua will not fight an enemy he cannot handle. He will not make you fail in your mandate. 

_hunters must always be on the hunt for something_

When you emerge from the isolation chamber alone, your father stands watch. It is not unusual to say that Silva Zoldyck looks displeased, but he looks particularly out of sorts as he takes you in. His eyes flick to the blood on the tips of your fingers and he knows you have done…. _something._

You hold your hands up in mocking surrender—there is no point in hiding anything from your father. 

“Killua will not face down an enemy he cannot handle again,” you say. 

There is a flicker of something in your father's eyes—pride? disgust?—and it is gone just as quickly.

“The family’s future rests on Killua’s shoulders.”

_Not yours._

“I know,” you say, molding your face into an affable smile. “It would be a tragedy to see the great Zoldyck line cut short.”

The words do not come out with the correct ring of sincerity. 

“Keep him close,” Silva says, putting a massive hand on your shoulder.

You will hunt for the stain on your family’s name and you will destroy it.

~

A millennia ago, the letter Z marked the middle of the alphabet, slashing its way through stone-carved missives with straight lines and sharp edges.

In those days it was pronounced _Zayin_ and it meant a weapon, calling for blood with every appearance.

~

If you were not already stained by your mother’s blood, the hands running through your hair would leave their mark forever. The memory of the feeling of being pressed against a mattress, of giving up all control, even for a moment, would be enough to forfeit your status as an assassin, let alone a member of the feared Zoldyck clan. 

Hisoka holds you down, a hand loosely gripped around your throat as you lean your head off the mattress. Yorknew City is a dirty place, the night rife with the sounds of the lives being cut short. They say that Meteor City is a dangerous place, but you find the civility of Yorknew City hides an even more deadly bite. 

“Is this how you want to end our game,” you ask, staring up at the clown. No expression crosses your face. No emotion crosses your face, and frankly, you don’t feel much either. 

He can try to kill you this way—it would be cowardly and frankly, disappointing. Dying in a Yorknew City Hotel is beneath you, no matter that it’s the most expensive hotel in the city. Instead, the clown releases his grip, climbs off of you and flops bonelessly onto the plush duvet.

“No,” he says, licking his lips. “I want to fight you at the height of your power. I want to see you struggle as the life leaves your eyes.”

You would never struggle to do something so pedestrian as staying alive, but you do not say so. It comes so easily to you. If Hisoka made good on his threats, It would be an easy thing to slide a pin into his heart and stop it, no matter his bungee gum efforts. But that is not the struggle Hisoka fantasizes about, and you do him to favor of shattering his illusion. 

You can be generous in that way.

“Tell me,” he says, brushing a hand up your chest, “if you could kill anyone in the world, who would it be.”

“You,” you reply. This is a silly question—if you were owed a death, you would simply take it. 

“Liar,” he purrs call you for exactly what you are, “but I’m flattered by the thought.”

You pour yourself a drink from the hotel minibar, tiring of this exchange quickly. The amount of time you can tolerate Hisoka’s presence is limited—and he is quickly spending his minutes with this line of questioning.

“There’s no one in the world out of your reach?”

For the briefest moment, your fingers flutter at the edge of your glass, nearly knocking the crystal off the table and onto the burgundy carpets. 

“No one,” you say, turning to flash an amicable smile.

But you can feel the lie taking over your words. 

As though he can sense the hesitation, Hisoka appears behind you, pressing his face into the strands of dark hair. For a moment, over as quickly as it begins, you think of silver hair and cat-like eyes. 

No, there is no one in the world outside of your reach.

“The first time I killed someone,” you say, “I was three. I have not stopped since. If you require my services, you know my price. There is no need for games.”

Hisoka’s chuckle is low and warm, and when you kiss him, the iron taste of blood coats your tongue.

~

Silva Zoldyck is what many would call ‘intimidating’. At 6’4”, he towers over the entire family like a gargantuan silver shadow. As he paces through the family control room you feel the prickle of a threat in your bones. 

Your assassin conditioning screams to get away, but instead, you stand by impassively. It is only when a massive hand lands on the back of your neck, you calculate the sum of your mistakes. 

“Killua is gone,” he says. 

_a hunter must always be on the hunt for something._

“He’s made it clear he won’t come back,” you say. Delicately, you pull a pin from your breast, using it to pick at your (admittedly, flawless) nails. There is nothing to be concerned about. 

“I believe you know his cellphone number,” you say lightly. But that is not what your father means. For all his lenience and patience, Killua is beyond his reach. You know this in your bones, the same way you know your father is the most dangerous man alive.

Killua will never return to the life of an assassin. 

There is an opportunity here—but the kind of opportunity your father wants. 

It has become clear you no longer see eye to eye about the family business.

Silva steps forward, pushing you. And for the first time in years—in more than a decade—

you stumble. 

“I have lost my heir,” Silva muses to himself. “Perhaps your grandfather was correct. Perhaps your mother’s blood is too much of a stain.”

The familiar taste of iron; the static in your head is deafening.

_stained, stained, stained, stained, stained stained stained stainedstainedstainedstainedstained_

You right yourself, regaining balance without looking up at your father. He expects a fight, you suppose. 

_if you could kill anyone in the world-_

“And what do you propose,” you say, voice still cheerful.

Silva does not answer. Perhaps he can sense your pragmatic bent. 

_you will hunt for the stain on your family’s name_

But your father still does not dignify your question with an answer. Instead, you can hear the sound of his footsteps as he walks away. 

You follow.

Against your better judgment and every hard-earned instinct, you follow him down the hall.

The Zoldyck mansion is vast, and the walk is long until you reach the inner sanctum of your father’s chambers. It gives you time to think as you go.

It is your father who has pushed Killua away. Letting him take the hunter exam, letting him chase off on a fool hearty quest after Gon. Your father who knowingly let Killua face off against the Chimera Ants. 

It is your father who had led his son astray. Your father who has allowed Killua to run rampant across the globe, every day drawing further and further away from his destiny.

“Perhaps it is I who is the fool,” your father muses. “I assumed that he would come back if offered his freedom.” Still, he does not look at you. 

So many years ago he had asked you to guide Killua. And you would. You would control Killua, and through him, you would control Alluka. But your father has simply…unleashed Killua. He has given Killua the freedom to run through the world, unfettered by the yoke of tradition and family.

With Killua and Alluka in hand, you could do anything. It occurs to you that not once have you considered your first wish.

_if you could kill anyone in the world-_

“You know what happens to those who can’t live up to the family name,” you say, echoing the life long threat. The sword that hangs over your neck at every turn.

For a moment Silva’s mouth quirks. 

“I did task you with keeping an eye on him. Do you think I will punish you for your failure?” he asks, amused. “Killua is still young. You will have an opportunity to redeem yourself.” Gone is the pacing, angry panther of your father’s rage. It has settled into something much more deadly, and for all his light tone—targeted at you.

There is nothing in the world quite like a misunderstanding, you think. You step forward, as though to supplicate yourself to your father’s mercy. 

The pieces fall into place before you. It is your father who chose the wrong heir. Your father who released him from his family bond, who raised him to be headstrong and useless as an assassin.

A hunter must always be on the hunt for something. You had chosen your prey all those years ago. 

_If you could kill anyone in the world-_

No one is out of your reach.

You will hunt for the stain on your family’s name and you will destroy it.

The pin is already in your hand as you lunge forward.

**Author's Note:**

> "There’s a lot of baggage that comes with us. But it’s like Louis Vuitton baggage — you always want it." - Kardashian, Kim. October 14, 2007. _Keeping Up with the Kardashians_


End file.
